


The box and other tales

by taralynden



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: M/M, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-07
Updated: 2012-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-29 02:10:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taralynden/pseuds/taralynden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-TF:TM, the mechs left behind have time for some introspection over what - and who - they've lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The box

The box sat on the bench, completely unremarkable in many ways, utterly insignificant to all but a few. The mech who had just set it there was one of those few, and he remained staring at it for a long time without moving. It was nothing special, simply a box to carry tools, one of hundreds or even thousands he had seen in his comparatively short lifespan. This one had been through a lot, the plating clearly having been patched many times, scrapes and dents and burns marring its surface. A trace of white paint could be seen on a corner. A streak of dried energon across the latch that held it closed was beginning to flake off, long since having dessicated.

The latch was not a lock, this box was never designed to be locked, it was just intended to stop the contents from spilling out. It, too, had suffered over the vorns. Had been replaced at least twice, judging by the weld-scars. A shallow groove had been fashioned from the frequent passage of a thumb over the metal to release it - a thumb from a hand a little bigger than his own.

Reaching out slowly, he slid his hand against that groove and felt the clasp come free. Long ago it would likely have made a loud click and snapped open on its own, but in it's current condition it needed a little more coaxing and the lid had to be opened manually. The hinges bore silent testament to the damage they had suffered when too much force had been used in the heat of the moment.

Leaving it closed, he held it briefly to his chest. Once, not so long ago, he had had nothing but scorn for this kit: not understanding and not caring to ask the history of it while the owner was still able to explain. Now he would have to discover the reasons for its unorthodox contents for himself. It was a study he would dedicate himself to, as a tribute to the last of the Golden Age medics without whose support and skill the war would have been long since lost. Support, and skill, and use of this ordinary looking box - Ratchet's personal field kit.

Ark mythology had it that he never went anywhere without it, that he had never let it out of his sight his entire life. He did not always use it - they had plenty of better tools on hand in the repair bay, and more in storage - but it was never left behind, never lay forgotten on a shelf while the mech himself left the room. Which was why First Aid had never touched it, in spite of seeing it scores of times. Until now.

In theory Ratchet's closest friend should have had first pick of his possessions, yet Wheeljack was lying next to the medic in the cool storage area, waiting for construction to be completed on the mausoleum that Hot R... Rodimus Prime had ordered be built. Just as well, really, he mused sadly. It would have hurt Wheeljack so much to see this scene, to lose so many friends in a single orn. No, with Wheeljack gone, he was next in line and he was sure no-one would begrudge him this. No-one else could use it, in any case. Even so, he subspaced the box before he could be interrupted. There was still work to be done, and no-one but him to do it. His last duty to his mentor was to remain calm and professional in the face of the grief-stricken mechs who needed his help, his own emotions set aside for now. There would be time later to grieve for himself, with his brothers to support him. And later still, when grief had lost its hardest edge, to ponder the contents of the box that this time the grizzled old medic had not even had time to use.


	2. Inconvenience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One mech says goodbye to another who meant more to him than anyone else ever realised

It had started with sex. Nothing spectacular, just two mechs caught up in a war and desperate for some distraction from the ever-mounting death toll. Each was careful not to speak, not to look at the other at those times, just to accept the physical comfort offered. It was not a relationship, it was not an agreement, just the meeting of a mutual need.

It had begun with one in the washracks in the middle of the rest cycle after a costly defeat, trying to bring himself to release. The other had come up from behind and touched more intimately than the first would ever have asked for. It was enough. There may have been tears from one, or from both, but the streaming water stole any evidence and the cycling filters muffled any cries they gave.

On duty, they barely saw each other, barely spoke. Why would they? They were here for very different reasons, had very different roles, socialised in very different circles. They both had their pride, and any hint of a relationship between them would have raised questions they did not want to answer. They did not love each other, after all. It was merely convenient.

One was thrown constantly into dangerous situations by dint of his role; the other sought the battlefield more often than was strictly necessary for his job. One was aloof, professional, even slightly disdainful; the other was outgoing, had a wide circle of friends and even fraternised regularly with the humans since their arrival on Earth. Neither confided in any of their colleagues; they were strong enough to manage on their own. And this arrangement was merely a convenient outlet. Either could choose to end it at any time.

They never did anything where they might be caught. Not that they actively planned it, but they grew accustomed to noticing when the other was stressed, and would follow. Earth offered so many more opportunities for escape than being trapped on-ship had done; excuses for absences were easier to manufacture and privacy easier to find. And they were rarely questioned in any case - after all, who would believe it of _them_?

Standing in the mausoleum ship now, staring at the greyed shell of the mech who had been his counterpart in this strange relationship for nearly half the war, Mirage wondered emptily what he was supposed to feel. His loss seemed so insignificant when compared to the grief around him.

Jazz was sobbing brokenly in the corner, refusing to let go of Prowl for long enough for the medics to place him in the stasis sleeve that would give the illusion of restoring his colours. Optimus was already set in place and there were many mourners clustered around, paying their final respects. The twins had been in briefly to say goodbye to Ratchet, but had gotten into a fight with the Dinobots and they had all been forcibly removed. The minibots were in vigil between Brawn and Windcharger, Bumblebee clearly torn with the need to care for his brethren and to deal with the fact that he had lost both of his mentors on the same day.

So many lost, too many good mechs who had deserved to live to see this day. What would life in the Ark be like without Ironhide around? Without Wheeljack's explosions? Without Optimus' stirring speeches and Ratchet's furious tirades and Prowl's pointed lectures?

His gaze returned to his... his what? His lover? Did he have the right to call him that? Probably not. He had not spoken up at this mech's section of the hurried memorial service, had chosen to keep his memories private. Others would only see them as sordid. Others would not understand. But it was now time to speak. He had paid his respects to all of the others in turn, and to fail to do so now when he had waited his turn would appear rude. There was so much he could have said, but in the end he limited himself to two final words.

"Goodbye, Brawn."


	3. Insanity

They were insane, all of them. It was the only answer that fitted the circumstances though it had taken him a long time to apply that label. Some of them seemed sane, but it was all on the surface: he was no longer fooled by appearance.

For a long while he had wondered if he was the one at fault, if the lack of sanity was a fault in his own processor. After all, when everyone around you behaves the same way, you start to question your own reasoning. But when one reached the same conclusion time after time, it became difficult to ignore the truth.

When he had first been brought back online after the long entombment in the ice he was relieved to see a familiar face, and had not initially questioned too much. Reflecting on it now, he knew he had been ignoring the changes in Starscream that he did not want to see: the weapons permanently fixed to his arms, for an obvious start.

The scientist and explorer he had known had been exuberant but never violent; a risk-taker, but not callous or careless. He had had a deep enthusiasm for his projects that was infectious and an interest in all kinds of ventures; this shadow that was left of him was cruel and selfish and insular. He openly railed against Megatron, and yet defended the tyrant against the tiniest slight from any non-Decepticon. He never did anything other than complain and fight and had balked against Skyfire's tentative suggestions for basic scientific enquiries. It seemed he had lost his ability to consider an argument objectively, to the point of accusing Skyfire of treason when he would not shoot to kill.

Treason. The accusation still hurt, even though it was spurious. A traitor? How could he betray a cause he did not understand and had never accepted?

Not that the Autobots were much better. Oh they considered themselves tolerant, and they had taken him in without much fuss. But the fact remained that their hands were stained with just as much energon as their opposition: they just were not quite as honest about their motivations, even individually.

Perceptor was a scientist, loved all life - even organic - and was open to a healthy debate on almost any topic. But raise the matter of the war and his responses became more terse, less reasoned. Try to discuss the violence that they were all party to, and he would close off the conversation altogether.

Mirage had been a noble from the Towers. Before the war it was likely he had never so much as washed his own frame down - there were servants for that. The nobles were particularly respected for their ability to mediate in disputes, but Mirage seemed to have entirely lost that impartiality and would not even discuss the concept of truce.

And then there was the Prime. The role of Prime was the ultimate in pacifism. Skyfire had once met Sentinel Prime, and the sense of peace around him had been palpable. Optimus, though, was different. He was a warlord. Oh, he preached about rights and peace and tolerance, but then he waded into battle with an enthusiasm that was sickening.

There were no good choices because there was no openness to resolution. Be a Decepticon and accept the violence and aim to destroy as much as possible while achieving your goals; be an Autobot and fool yourself that you are the righteous even as you make every attempt to utterly destroy the Decepticons; be a Neutral and be seen as a risk to both other sides and so become a target.

Well the situation had changed today. Megatron and Optimus were both dead, as were many of their upper support network. And to his shock, he found he was so inured to the carnage that he could not even find it within himself to mourn them.

The optimist in him wanted to believe this would be a new start for everyone, but he did not believe it. Already they were heading off to do battle with some unknown 'foe' near Cybertron. A new Prime would take up the cause, the war would go on.

The war would go on, but he would no longer be part of it. He considered himself not Decepticon, nor Autobot, nor even Neutral. Simply a Cybertronian. And he would rather be alone than risk being infected further by the insanity.


	4. Invisible

The door opened and two mechs strode across the room towards the exit on the other side.

"Did you see the latest orders?"

"Yeah. Can't say I'm surprised."

"You're not? But who's going to do all our work?"

"No-one. Rodimus doesn't think he needs it. Doesn't want the ops bots, either, 'cept for Bumblebee."

"He doesn't know Bee was on Jazz's team, that's why."

"Yeah, and maybe because Bee's closer to his age. Makes sense."

"But what're _we_ going to do?"

"Beats me what _you're_ going to do. Me, I think I'll go native."

"What?"

"Ever hear of a place called Las Vegas...?"

The door closed and the room was silent again. Quiet, but not empty.

The mech sitting in the corner was not surprised that they had not noticed him. It seemed that these days very few ever did.

He had signed on to the Ark's crew in one last semi-futile attempt to carry out his original programming. There were no cities left to defend on Cybertron, none that he considered worth saving at least, so the next best option was to defend the Prime. At least, that was the excuse he gave. Mostly, he just did not want to be abandoned again.

Optimus had seemed somewhat surprised at his request to join the crew but had agreed. Most of the others had said little about it, though the maintenance crew seemed less than pleased. Well aware that there was little he could do on the journey, he voluntarily dropped into stasis lock and waited to be revived. It took longer than he expected.

Being revived on a strange, organic-based planet was bizarre, but he felt no need to become involved with the flighty native species. The mechs around him were mere sparklings in comparison to his own age, and these humans barely existed long enough for him to bother learning their language let alone becoming familiar with any individuals.

For a short while he was busy. His assistance was sought on a remarkably frequent basis - more than a dozen times in less than the space of one of this planet's solar cycles. And sometimes it was even interesting. Sometimes, he even wanted to go out.

Devastator. His once-friends-now-enemies were afraid of him, and he still harboured a deep anger for what they had done to his city. It had been their city too, once, and while they chose to forget that point, he never could.

For a time he took every opportunity to go after them, to finally make them pay for their crimes. To the others around him it was ancient history, but to him it had happened so recently that the fury could not be denied.

And then...

And then the Autobots had gained their own gestalts. They were the ones more often selected to turn back Devastator. They were the ones summoned at need. The requests for his assistance became more infrequent, and then stopped altogether.

When Metroplex had been completed, practically all of the Autobots had moved to there from the Ark. But no provision had been made for him. Seemingly in no time at all the Ark went from a frustratingly noisy and bustling place to a mausoleum.

His energy reserves were slowly dropping now that no-one was providing him with regular fuel. The black and white Praxian had always done so, though he had been absent for some time now. They had become... not quite friends, but more than acquaintances. He should really have bothered to learn the mech's designation and then he could send out a request for his attention, but they had rarely spoken: the words exchanged always the bare minimum required.

His attention drifted back to the conversation he had just overheard from the two mechs who had hurried through his space. The name they had used... _Rodimus_?... had been tagged with the Prime marker.

He shifted somewhat uneasily at the thought of Optimus Prime's demise, then wondered why. He had seen Primes come and go before. None had given him much thought, this one was likely the same.

Dismissing the thought, he resettled himself. Perhaps it was time to go back into stasis. He would not be missed, and if he was needed then they could rouse him again. It was not easily done, but that fiery-tempered medic was very good at his job.

Yes, he would charge. And when they eventually decided to leave this planet they would find him here waiting for them.

"Omega Supreme, shutting down."


	5. Dependency

Another shift over and done and I head straight to the bar along the same route I always take. After so long of being confined in the limited usable space in the Ark, the streets and districts of Autobot City seem decadent and I don't often venture far beyond the triangle of my accommodation, my duty post and this bar.

Today I hear laughter as I enter and slip through the crowds to a particular table over to the side. The laughter itself is not unusual. As our numbers increase and the ones long scattered amongst the stars return to us, there is more noise and bustle and life. To them, this is paradise, and they have a lot to celebrate.

So do the Autobots, really. We've regained control of Cybertron. We have the space bridge technology that was previously only accessible to the Decepticons. Our numbers are swelling again and the stresses and strains of conflict are starting to diminish.

The war goes on - now against the Quintessons and the insane usurper Galvatron - but it's distant. Only those ready and willing to fight are required to be on the front lines. Here, and in so many other places, there are once again civilians living in peace and miraculously it looks like a peace that will actually hold.

I wave away the serving mech offering to bring me some energon - I'll wait for my companion - and can't help but scowl at the rowdy group in the corner. They forget what we lost to gain this peace. Or perhaps they just don't understand.

A familiar voice calls out to me and I wipe the scowl from my face, smiling and waving eagerly in reply, but he's already distracted by someone else. I watch him interact with others, musing that many of the old Ark crew would barely recognise him now.

Where Megatron's final attack and the appearance of Unicron and the emergence of the Quintesson threat has pushed many to despair, it actually cured Red Alert of his paranoia. What occurred was worse than anything he had predicted by so many orders of magnitude that he concluded it was no longer worrying about the possibilities. The multiple crises had been nightmarish beyond anyone's concepts of possibility, and yet we still came through more or less intact, and from that he drew hope.

I should be pleased, I know. All those vorns of wishing and praying he would relax and calm down and take a break, and now that he's doing all that I know I'm unfairly ungrateful that those prayers and wishes have been granted.

He's done very well, lately. Promoted to the senior advisors circle, no longer stifled by Prowl.

Many don't realise that that's how it was because he and Prowl seemed to get on just fine, but it was just professionalism. Red was always frustrated by the tactician's persistent interference in security matters: the way he would personally organise patrol routes and schedules, the way he would handle discipline issues rather than more appropriately leaving that to the security team to manage.

I won't say he's glad Prowl's dead, because that's not true, but he's relieved that he's no longer _here_. It means he can actually do his job, which is all he ever wanted to do.

Being in a command position suits him. He's relaxed, he's competent, he's involved. He's happy. He rests regularly, he takes his breaks, he even takes time out to spend with colleagues and friends.

Which, I guess, is why he doesn't have time to spend with me.

I feel selfish, thinking that, but it doesn't change the fact I feel abandoned. I really am happy for him, it's just that... That I've been looking after him for so long, organising my entire life around his neuroses for so long, that I didn't realise I'd become more dependent on _him_ than he was on _me_. And now I just feel so lost without that purpose in my day.

He doesn't know. Doesn't realise, I don't think, that I really don't have any other friends here. The few others I had time for have all either left or died or been reassigned. He's all I've got left.

So I come here every day after shift to watch him, and to wonder what he would think if he found out that it's the highlight of my day. It's the anticipation of this time that gets me off the berth at the start of the day. And I cherish every moment of his time that he spares for me, brief as it often is.

He approaches and I smile warmly, about to offer to get him some energon, but he speaks first.

"Sorry about that, Inferno. I had to speak to Yellowcross now or I wouldn't get the chance until after his trip to Europe, and now I've got to amend my report before Blaster sends it to Cybertron. You've already eaten, though, right? You don't mind? We'll catch up tomorrow."

"Sure, Red. Tomorrow. No problem. I'll be here."


	6. Decision

They don't need us anymore. I say 'us', it's always _us_ , we come as a pair - always have, always will. But one of us isn't all there anymore and so they forget... But I don't.

No-one understands what it's like. Some of them try to imagine, but they get it all wrong. We have different interests, different skills, different needs. We're not welded together at the hip and we're not clones of each other. Honestly, who would want to be a clone of _him_?

We're not berthmates, either, no matter what the rumours say. Never have been, never will be. The idea's crazy anyway. We only _have_ one spark between us - there's nothing to share that isn't already shared.

Not all of them accept that we need to be together, but most've stopped asking about it. They still mutter though. They look at him and look at me and wonder why they need to drag dead weight around when I'm the only one still fully functional.

Well slag'em. It's none of their business. He's still here because I'm still here. What happened would never've happened while Optimus was Prime, with Prowl directing battles and Ironhide there to pull us out when we got in too deep and Ratchet waiting to fix us.

Everything's changed now.

A lot of the original Ark crew've gone since everything got turned upside down. Most of them were sidelined by the newcomers, or just ignored.

Us, though? Oh, they wanted us. And we were happy to carry on the fight - we wanted revenge and Roddy's _'charge right in and get on with it'_ style meant we weren't restrained anymore.

But who's left to get revenge on? Just like the Ark crew, most of the Nemesis crew're broken up too.

Never thought I'd say this, but I actually miss Mega-aft and Starscreech and his cronies. The Sweeps just aren't the same, and don't even get me started on Galvatron. Talk about creepy. And insane. Half the time he's attacking his own supporters, and laughing while he does it.

No, they don't need us anymore, do they bro? You don't talk to me anymore, but I know you're there. You have to be. You can't die while I'm alive. Or is it that I can't live if you're dead?

You know what? I don't think I want to play anymore. All the fun's gone. They won't even miss us, I bet. _Sideswipe and Sunstreaker, who're they?_ Old crew, not important, done their bit, time for new bots to make a stand.

Well let'em.

I - no, _we_ \- We quit.


	7. Tribute

He stopped in the open doorway, his momentum lost now that he had actually arrived. Just what was he intending to do here? Rescue some small portion of the contents? To what purpose? And store it where? Besides, it was not so much the loss of the things but of the _place_ that had driven him to race over here ahead of the clearing squad.

The problem, as so often was the case these days, was the new regime. Autobot City had been given to Blaster to manage, and as far as _he_ was concerned this room could stay like it was for the rest of eternity without being disturbed. But one of the new arrivals had fancied it as a studio, and when he had been turned down and told why he had gone to Ultra Magnus who had ordered it emptied immediately.

Blaster's delaying tactics had failed - there were now only groons until a maintenance detail would come in and clear out everything within. The best the frazzled city commander had managed was to get permission for mechs like Grapple to go and retrieve 'their' belongings first.

It did have to be emptied, he supposed. There were all kinds of things in here that might degrade over time and explode, or get dislodged and explode, or be on some randomly set timer and explode... In truth, it was a miracle that nothing had exploded yet.

He cautiously took a step inside. Nothing stirred. The lab was the same chaotic mess it had been when Wheeljack had abandoned it in response to the battle alert as Trypticon had approached.

Half-built somethings were strewn about, mixed with half-drunk cubes of now-degraded energon and note-filled datapads and circuitry with tangled, trailing wires. In one corner he saw a set of schematics for the Dinobots. On a cluttered bench, the mangled and melted remains of a failed experiment. Piled by a cupboard, a haphazard collection of parts of human-made vehicles.

But it was not the experiments that were the most difficult for him to cope with. Wheeljack had blown up his own creations often enough that it was almost expected.

It was knowing that this would no longer be Wheeljack's space that hurt the most.

Sure, this lab was fairly new - Autobot City had been built so recently - but this had always been part of the design specs. Right down to the reinforced walls, ceiling and floor to contain accidents and the complex atmosphere filtering system to stop the escape of gases harmful to their organic allies.

It had been designed for him, structured for him, built for him, and the idea of someone else being in here so soon after his demise seemed repellent. Particularly given how much space there was here on Earth. There was no pressure for accommodation - could they not at least wait a vorn out of respect for the recently fallen?

"Grapple?" a voice behind him called.

"I don't know what to do, Hoist. It's not right. They shouldn't be doing this."

"They'll be here in a groon."

"Then we'll seal the door so they can't get in. You can weld it shut..."

"They'll just break it down."

"Whose side are you on?" he demanded angrily, turning, then gaped as he saw that Hoist was not alone. "Jazz?"

The once-cheery ex-third-in-command did not attempt to smile or even to meet his gaze, simply staring into the cluttered space.

"Y'right." he agreed dully. "They don't respect it. An' we ain't got the time for anythin' subtle but they ain't gettin' their hands on it, either. Leave it t'me."

Hoist grabbed his arm and pulled him out and away across the courtyard.

"What's he going to do?" Grapple hissed at him.

"What Wheeljack would've wanted. Now come on - he said we shouldn't be here when it happens."

* * *

A breem later the entire lab was destroyed in an explosion that somehow avoided doing more than minor damage to the buildings around it, but left not a trace of the workshop that had been there. Red Alert ordered an investigation into the cause but none was ever identified, and when rumours started up that it was Wheeljack's ghost saying goodbye the investigators gave up in disgust.

Grapple tried several times to find Jazz to thank him but the wily mech had always been hard to pin down unless he wanted to be found and these days he rarely did.

It was not, perhaps, the best solution in terms of the knowledge that had been lost, and it was the destruction of yet another of his designs but this time it felt right.

It was a fitting tribute to a mech whose name had been synonymous with explosions for as long as Grapple could remember.


	8. Hollow

He's back. No-one can explain how but he is, and Rodimus is just Hot Rod again and Elita is smiling again. And to see them together again makes everyone hopeful and everything else that's happened just gets washed away, like dust on your armour panels when you get back from a trip you didn't want to take and it's now over.

He's back and I'm happy about that. Of course I am. He's a great leader, and we need some stability again. Everything's been so chaotic since he di... went away.

But just because he's back, it doesn't mean that everything's fixed.

He's back, but the others never will be. Never _can_ be now, even with Primus' blessing, because their frames got smelted.

No-one got asked about that, it just got done. Elita came by awhile afterwards to apologise to Chromia for not telling her so she could at least say a final farewell prayer. Chromia hasn't said a word since.

It's not Elita's fault. Her partner had just come back, she was distracted. And she at least felt guilty about it. None of the others seem to even remember that Chromia and Ironhide were sparkmates before Elita and Optimus were even activated. Let alone that Ironhide was there when Optimus first formed the Autobots.

As to the others...

Well, Ratchet was closest to Wheeljack and vice versa, so there's really no-one obvious to be told there, though it would've been courteous to tell First Aid at the very least. And the minis on board might've liked to know about Brawn, might've liked to at least be able to stand vigil when it happened. And Prowl? Jazz has been unstable and withdrawn, but he's findable if they had tried.

What was the rush, anyway? For that matter, why did it even have to be done at all?

He's back, and Elita's happy, and the Autobots' morale has lifted and that's all good news for anyone who isn't me.

Me, I get to sit here, joor after joor, orn after orn, watching Chromia slowly fade away. Elita was at least keeping busy when Optimus was gone, but without Ironhide Chromia lost the will to live.

Many thought she might try to go out in a blaze of revenge-filled glory, and they have commented uncharitably on her lack of action. She doesn't hear them. She doesn't fuel, she doesn't rest, and now she doesn't speak.

Before this latest insult, she would sometimes listen to me. Would sometimes give a sad smile and try to convince me to stop wasting my time watching over her. And when I refused she would touch my hand in gratitude and say I was a true friend.

She no longer listens. She no longer speaks. She no longer smiles.

If I left, she probably wouldn't notice. She's so withdrawn now, searching the broken remains of the bond, that she didn't even flinch when the battle alarms went off.

I hate to watch it happen. I hate seeing this, being so helpless. Sometimes I think I can't bear it anymore, that I have to go for my own sake. Just for awhile. Why should this be _my_ problem?

I never do.

If I go, she'll be alone. No-one else will come. No-one else has for long enough for me to be sure of that. They have forgotten her, they have forgotten us, caught up in their hope that was refreshed by our great leader's return.

I cannot leave her alone now. It would not be right.

So I stay and I watch and I wait. And I try to remember what it was like to have hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It never made sense to me why they would send the dead off into space in a mausoleum ship in the first place. If they never smelted anyone on Cybertron, it would only take a few generations before the planet, or the solar system, was clogged with corpses. My answer to this (for this snippet, anyway) is that normal mechs get smelted, but anyone particularly important is preserved in case Primus chooses to revive them. It's a special honour, not granted that often. Mostly superstition, but then look what happened with Optimus. So his destruction of the others is a callous dismissal of their importance and an insult to those who elected to preserve them.
> 
> As to the speaker of this particular piece, I have someone in mind but I'll leave it to the reader to choose who they feel would fit. Thank you for reading.


End file.
